


This long yet ephemeral life

by MrsJoyceChilvers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Violet/Patrick, and Violet's bond with Isobel, mentions of Violet/Igor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJoyceChilvers/pseuds/MrsJoyceChilvers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Violet Crawley said goodbye. And one time she did not.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	This long yet ephemeral life

Through the throng of people, most of whom she's never seen before and suspects she's unlikely to again, she seeks her out. Plainly dressed, a small green felt hat on her head, she stands in the corner, ignored by everyone around her. The indifference would be staggering except for the fact that Violet knows this world all too well. This is how things are - the classes. The two intrinsically bonded and yet never to mix, even when in the same room together.

She ignores the social expectations, the notion of not touching, and clasps the smaller woman's hands in her own, holding them tightly. They're old hands now; the smoothness of youth replaced with soft skin and the freckles of liver spots, and yet they feel so familiar to her. The same hands that brushed her hair, that wiped away her tears, that so gently nursed her and fed her soup when she was ill.

‘Thank you so much for the tureen’.

She's met with the most brilliant smile, and then the glisten of tears. 

‘Oh, my dear... how beautiful you look. My little red haired cherub grew up into a queen’.

And now Violet feels the tears prick at the corners of her eyes too. She's eighteen and married now. In less than an hour she will go upstairs for the last time, change out of her white dress, and leave her home for good. 

She'd reconciled to this ever since she was eleven, when her mother sat her down in the nursery and told that girls must marry. She has little attachment left to this building she's lived in all her life. It's just bricks and mortar. She wonders if she'll even miss her parents. But the woman in front of her, her mother's maid, it breaks her heart to even let go of her hands.  


* * *

 

There was just a stain of blood, and nothing more. Like a cut finger or a grazed knee. Nothing to suggest the reality of what she'd lost. Roberta had maintained it was all for the best. That it had been a godsend in the end. She was probably right. There would have always been the risk of Patrick discovering the truth. And yet in this moment all she can feel is the utter desolation of loss. Like an acute pain in her chest, a knife twisted in an already open wound.

It's been two months since she came home. Two months since she last saw him. The sound of him screaming her name as she was driven away against her will still echoes in her ears at night when she tries to sleep. 

She'd begun to suspect she was with child even as they'd planned their escape. She had a feeling. An instinct. Then she was late and she knew for certain. It was to have been a surprise. Something to tell Igor when they set sail - when they were free from Russia and spouses, when they could finally be together like they wanted to be. And then Irina had intervened and everything had gone to hell. 

There's nothing to mark what's happened to her, nothing to place in the ground, no physical body to mourn. In a way she's grateful. It's less complicated this way. And yet she feels almost as devastated about having nothing tangible to grieve over as she is about the loss of her unborn child itself.

The sapling is just fresh in the ground, and part of the new secret garden being planted to the back of the Abbey. It's an apple tree apparently. She looks down at what seems but a twig in the ground and softly smiles. It will do, she thinks. The little stick will grow and bear fruit in autumn and blossom in spring. In many ways the antithesis of her, who has so far struggled to bear two children and now lost another before it could even grow inside her. She closes her eyes and thinks of the little girl she was sure she was carrying, and of her father, so far away. This is the last time she will do this - the last time she will think about what happened. When she opens her eyes again, it is to walk away. The past is the past now.  


* * *

She's got a reputation for being a bastion of tradition, but she hates this one. It's light outside and yet the curtains are drawn. It's the respectful thing to do - the more peaceful way, her grandmother once told her. It may be so, but when she leaves this world for the next, she wants to be able to feel the daylight on her face and not as if she's already been placed in her shroud.

In the candlelight she can just about make out Robert's features as he sits next to Cora. He seems pensive - his hands clasped together in front of him. They've all fought hard to keep the estate afloat, but now he knows that the burden will soon fall to him alone. She wants nothing more than for the estate to be his, but there are times when she wishes a different future for him. One free from the worry that ate at the man in the next room.

The door clicks open and Rosamund exits slowly. Her eyes are red. Without hesitation Marmaduke moves to comfort her, his arms around her in an instant, and for a brief second she feels a modicum of envy. That's how marriage should be, she thinks. 

It's her turn now and she feels sick.

She sits in the chair by the bed. Patrick's eyes are closed and for a moment she wonders if he's already gone. But then he speaks her name. His voice barely above a whisper.

Still, she's not sure what to do. She's not sure what to say. What can she say at this stage? Both know things could have been better between them. The fights are long over, as are the days when each sought comfort in the beds of others. 

In the end she covers his hand with her own and whispers ‘I'm here’. It's the last thing she says to him.

 

* * *

She stands a little apart from the rest of the farewell group. She's not one of them, although once upon a time, had circumstances been different, she might well have been. There are bear hugs and warm embraces for him - fewer for the woman beside him. Funny, she thinks, in this one moment both she and his wife are in the same position, outsiders to this cohort of exiled Russians who had made York their home. He moves down the line of well wishers, taking a prolonged moment to talk to Rostov. Despite the sunshine, there's an odd chill on the railway platform now, and then she catches Irina's gaze directed at her and immediately knows the source. She's being watched now. The closer he moves towards her, the more Irina's eyes bore into her. The unspoken loathing is there, as is a warning.

In the end it's all achingly polite. They don't even touch. He says ‘thank you’ and she wishes him well. 

As the train pulls out, she tastes blood in her mouth - sharp and metallic. The inside of her mouth is sore from where she's bitten it - the skin now broken in lieu of her screams of “stay”.  


* * *

 

It's a small wedding. The bride and groom, and barely ten people other people. They want it this way, an intimate gathering and no fuss. It's understandable, given the circumstances. There's nothing quite like a family feud to poison an atmosphere, or for that matter no one like Larry Grey to manage it single-handedly.

She sits on the bride's side, although she's actually known the groom longer. It's right though, she thinks. Despite it all, despite the frosty start all those years ago, Isobel is family. 

She's still not sure whether she's gotten used to the idea of Isobel getting married again, although unlike before, she's behaved herself this time. She doesn't like to dwell too much on how she handled the first courtship and engagement. She's ashamed that it took Larry being a monumental sod to make her see sense. Still, the feelings from before are still there this time. She's just dealing with them in a different way now.  
  
The vows are exchanged and yet despite the sudden burn in her chest, she finds she can't help but smile. He's dying, and yet both groom and bride look so happy. They're a good match. Two decent and kind people who deserve to be together.

As the couple walk down the aisle, Isobel catches her eye. She's beaming, her smile as wide as Violet's ever seen. And then, for a fleeting moment, it feels like time has stopped. In reality it's only a second - barely noticeable to anyone else in the diminutive congregation, but she feels it. The momentary pause and the softening of Isobel's smile as they look at each other. 

‘Nothing will change, Violet’. Isobel has said it countless times in the last few weeks, but deep down they both know it's not true. Things have to change. It's how the world works and life goes on. And this is the moment. 

From her place in the second pew of the church, she watches the couple make their way outside. And unseen by anyone, she mouths the word ‘goodbye’.

 

* * *

She's vaguely aware of voices and the faint sound of sniffling coming from somewhere close by. She thinks she should open her eyes, find out the culprit and scold them, but after a moment she realises that she has neither the inclination, nor the energy to do so.  
  
She's lost track of how long she's been like this - prostrate on her bed. Days, weeks, it might well be years now. She no longer has a sense of time. Only that everything now feels endless.   
  
She knows the curtains are drawn back though. Even with her eyes closed, she can sense the daylight beyond her bedroom window and the sunshine streaming in.   
  
There's a voice that's now louder than the rest.   
  
‘Mama?’  
  
It sounds like Robert. And then she feels the touch of a hand against her own. Rosamund?  
  
Suddenly she's a young woman again, and being woken from a nap by her two children. The nanny had nearly had a fit when she'd discovered both her charges had wandered off and disturbed their mother's rest time.   
  
‘It's nearly time’.  
  
Another voice. A woman. Isobel?   
  
A hand fleetingly touches her forehead in a gentle caress, and then she feels one arm carefully lifted just a fraction off the bed.  
  
‘It's the countdown’, she thinks. The pulse is starting to give up.   
  
She's ninety-five years and two hundred and eighty eight days old. Impressive by anyone's standards. When she turned ninety-four, she joked that she'd make herself live until one hundred. She never meant it though. She already felt she'd been around too long by the time she was eighty.

Will it be heaven, hell, or purgatory? She's not sure she believes in any, and if they do exist, there are plenty of people she has no wish to meet again in all three. The last thing she wants is to leave this world and find herself at a celestial gathering with ‘friends’ she spent most of her life on earth avoiding. 

The sun coming through the windows feels warmer against her face and suddenly she wants to open her eyes and tell everyone off for being so maudlin. But when she finally does, there's nothing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1.The first part stems from an exchange between Violet and Denker during the season five Christmas special, when the latter noticed a soup tureen in the cabinet:
> 
> "I don't think I've noticed that before."  
> "My mother's maid gave it to me as a wedding present. When I was a girl, if I was ill, she would make the most delicious chicken broth and serve it in this."
> 
> There was something in what Violet said and her tone of voice that seemed to hint at at her having a very genuine fondness for the lady in question. Far more than what we might have expected from her with regard to staff.
> 
> 2\. A massive thank you to Cristina for her beta services and encouragement.


End file.
